


dust and ash

by illy



Series: close your eyes, think of something nice [2]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Minor Character Death, Severe Burns, Torture, Undertale Genocide Route
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:21:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24950737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illy/pseuds/illy
Summary: A human walks into a bar.
Series: close your eyes, think of something nice [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1811887
Kudos: 4





	dust and ash

When the door opens the smell of snow and dust waft through the air.

From the quaint winter morning enters a child, a human child. Ears, nose, and cheeks rosy from the cold. 

The bar has always been warm. A common house for neighbors. Now, the seats lay empty and the shadows have made a home here. A refuge only for the foolish or the desperate. Still, the pleasant warmth lingers. A telling heat.

Of the soul that still resides here.

The same moment that the child lurks forward does the door, not the front, but the back, kitchen door opens. And the darkness is pushed back by orange light, but outside the brightness, the shadows grow and thicken. 

The man enters the room timely, as though he had been waiting for this, expecting the humans’ arrival. The fire man, recently the owner of this bar and a friend for many, stands alone, foolishly holding onto nothing. But now, more than ever, his fire burns hotter and brighter.

Across the room he sees the child who grins with childish wide-eyed glee and excitement —even curiosity perhaps. But the innocent image is twisted into a chilling, petrifying significance by the hair, clothes, and knife (held loosely, sharpened point, dull edges) that are sprinkled in grey dust. Remnants of life. An omen of death.

No words are spoken. Grillby folds his sleeves, the human raises an eyebrow but the corners of the eyes fold up. Less than half the height of the man, the dark eyes look down on him.

Grips tighten and fists raise. Flames burst and eat the walls. Furious heat scorches the air.

In these moments the human child, overcome with delight, laughs even as her shoes meld into the floor. Laughs as she runs barefoot towards the enemy, the origin of a blizzard of flame, and though the knife is held firm, she does not swing it. Instead, the human avoids blows until from the bar she jumps onto the flame man and hugs him with both arms and legs.

Stunned by the reckless action, the man falls to the floor, only to follow with a powerful fist to the child’s skull. Burning flesh and blood are swallowed in smoke but the human holds on and over the face of flame spits saliva and blood. There is no physical effect, but the child grins, this time sinister, when the man reacts by peeling her off him by the hair in hasty movements.

Retreating to the front door, she douses herself in water. Her hair smokes but no longer burns. Beaming, she looks towards the bar owner, who had stopped short of grabbing her again, but hadn’t the sense to move back. Knife on the floor, she holds a water bottle in her hand. One of three.

“What,” she coons, “of course I came prepared~”. Though his eyes are not visible, the human is joyfully aware of the gaze that lingers on the bottle.

The fire grows, the building begins to crumble above them. The fire man is not a flame but a bonfire. A demon in the face of something greater. 

A rat facing a snake.

A meal.

Teeth bare, the child attacks. The flame retaliates. No sound is heard but the child feels the pain when she hits the blazing wall, water bottle lay on the wood floor leaking from an open cap. The fire man’s shoulders are raised, protective but threatening. The child’s arm, the one that had held the bottle, aches from hand shapes burns and unnatural twisting. But it isn’t dislocated or broken.

Unimpressed, the child, hot, and crying from the smoke, retrieves the bottle on agile legs. It’s nearly empty. She spills it into her mouth.

Grillby advances once again. A jab to the face. She doges, turns to his side, he jabs to her stomach. She takes it, and when it hits, she looks to him, and heaves out a mouthful of water. It is not well aimed, but the fist extinguishes when it pulls back frantically. The human takes that time to reach into the man’s face and rip the glasses from his face. She breaks the arms off of it and throws away and into the fire, knowing that it will not melt from the heat.

The hand lights again and she opens the second bottle, splashing it at him when he backs away and reaches for his face, where his glasses once were. Curiosities arise in her mind but are left to wait. The fire sizzles. She follows his steps with her own.

Again, the child swings the bottle and water pours from it. The fire flickers. The man begins to lose form. The bottle empties.

The human losses herself to the questions and does not reach for the last bottle. She grabs the steaming flame by the collar and pulls it. It’s light, absolutely no weight. Like fire.

She brings both of them outside, where a comfortable breeze soothes the scathing skin. The fire begins to light again, so she opens and pours only a slight amount of his faceless face. So weak against water.

She pauses just outside the building. “How do you see? Tell me. Why do you need glasses? Do you?”

Against her wishes, the questions are met with enraged silence. The child gathers snow in her hands, frowning. 

“I wonder,” the child muses. “Does snow work on you like water does?” She smiles. “I think it does, but just to be sure, let’s find out.”

With one last splash just to be careful, she holds hurt by one hand and holds the snowball in the other, and pushes it into his face though he tries to turn away.

It doesn’t work quite as well as she wants it to, but still, the flickering becomes more rapid. The child giggles.

“Oh, good.”

Using the other hand she pulls him to the ground and sits on his shirt. Her eyes go wide when she sees something from on the face. A mouth that grows, encompasses half of the head. It bares itself and aims for her arm at the same time that two fists grab her face and head. Not to punch but simply to hold until she herself melts.

She tears away, the face wraps around her upper arm when she readjusts her grip on the back of his shirt. Aggravated, she shoves the vaguely human form down to the snow and cleaves her arm from the fire. Snow melts in the heat.

Sitting atop the man’s shirt, she breathes, then beams. “Bad dog.” The child reaches into the flame’s head and is somewhat surprised to find that there really is only flame there. She pulls her hand out when the heat makes her arms shake.

Seared red hands roll snow into balls. “Bad dog,” she repeats, and drops the snow onto him. Unsteady flames become desperate. 

From pinched sight, Grillby looks at the human and sees disappointment replace the previous youthful elation. His thoughts fill with disgrace.

The fire flickers and 

dust mingles with ash.


End file.
